


Because part of you pours out of me

by butiwaswildonce



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, College AU, F/M, Fear of Vulnerability, Found Family, Gen, General warning for Beverly’s childhood, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Trust Issues, everybody get in we’re going to therapy, friendships, no pennywise, self deprecation, so: csa and abuse mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butiwaswildonce/pseuds/butiwaswildonce
Summary: A story about recovering from your childhood, one messy day at a time.





	Because part of you pours out of me

_ “Hold onto nothing, as fast as you can.” _

**

Of course, because nothing could possibly be simple or easy for Beverly Marsh on that particular day, the lift in her building was broken. She stared forlornly at the flight of stairs, the first flight disappearing behind a wall, but she knew there were ten more just like it before she would make it to her floor. She glanced at her various assortments of fabric bags, her sketchbooks spilling from her broken backpack, spilled at her feet in a fit of exhaustion, and wishes briefly to just say fuck it and lay down right then and there for a nap. 

She wipes at the sweat formed on her brow, with her eyes clenched shut as she exhales a breath. She could do this. 

With her belongings precariously arranged in her arms, both her back and neck and, briefly, her teeth, being put to use to carry and hold things, she eventually crawled her way up the mountain that was the stairs in her building. 

There was music and laughter coming from beneath her door, and for some reason it filled her with dread. A frown formed on her features before she remembered herself, schooling her face into what she hoped was a pleasant expression. She again dropped all her things at her feet, and fished her keys from her bag.

The door swung open to reveal two other women, her roommates, sprawled across their living room floor, a bottle of wine between them, as they each leaned over looking at something on the screen of a phone. 

“BEV!” Both girls shouted simultaneously, laughter still clear on their faces.

“You’re home! Get down here girl,” Kay practically screams, alcohol removing what little volume control she has. Patty, in a much more suitable tone, offers her a glass of pinot.

A screech of laughter is pulled from the louder girl, Kay, as she looked at the phone again, and Bev could feel it race through her blood. Suddenly, she wanted to be anywhere but there. 

“No, that’s okay, I’ve got,” she gestured to her sketchbook, “a lot of work to do tonight.”

Kay pulled a face, yelling after her as she traipsed to her room, leaving her fabric bags in the living room. She’d get them later, she reasoned. “You work too hard Bevvie!”

A painful wince pulled at her at the nickname, the response pavlovian. She shook her head, clearing it, and set herself up at her desk. 

Time rushed by, but inspiration eluded her. There she was, half an hour later, and not a single new idea had formed from pen to paper.

She groaned heavily, dropped her sketch pencil, and looked over the dress patterns she was meant to be changing, with a pit of lead that had formed in her stomach. 

Another cigarette lit, the heady smoke clouding her already small and dark room. She couldn’t think. 

Self-doubt punched at her, the idea that she was kidding herself. What was she thinking, leaving Maine? Trying to compete with all the other designers who had come to Chicago, probably with more experience, more insight, more nerve than she could ever have?

Freshman year, that had been a learning curve. But sophomore year had been a fucking uphill battle. A few weeks out from her sophomore summer break and she was less certain than ever about what she was doing and why. 

The sounds of PJ Harvey sang out down the hall. _Little fish, big fish, swimming in the water. _

She loved this album. But she didn’t love it right then. 

She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she could simply ask Kay and Patty to turn it down. The three of them had been living together for almost the entire academic year. When they had their mid-terms she had been more than accommodating to them, despite her own propensity for being a night owl. But the very idea of going out there, and asking them to stop being so loud, it sat bitterly within her and she just couldn’t do it. 

Tension formed in her shoulders as she pushed the tip of her pencil further into the paper, the point darkening with the pressure until, finally, giving out and snapping.

“Damn it.” Her fingers shook and spasmed as she dropped the pencil and stretched out her hand, balling it into a fist and clenching to ease the ache formed from working herself to exhaustion.

She couldn’t work like this. She was a week out from an interview with a designer she had been dreaming about even the possibility of working with since her freshman year at SAIC, knowing an internship was part of the program. None of her previous work felt good enough, none of it felt like something she could say without a doubt was what she wanted to offer the world of art fashion. 

And, she didn’t know why, but the mounting pressure cascading over her was beginning to make it feel like if she couldn’t get anything done that night, she would be arriving at the interview with nothing that truly satisfied her. 

She slammed her sketchbook closed. Reaching for her backpack, she shoved her belongings haphazardly into it, rushed from her decision, with a kind of nervous energy that had become her normal state of being over the last two years. Her nails were bitten to the quick and, though her body lacked the bruises that had been a staple of her childhood and adolescence, it often ached with the memory of them, particularly in times of extreme pressure.

It meant, that along with the expected ache in her hands and fingers, the rest of her body was smarting with phantom pain as well. 

_Ghosts._ She knew how much they could hurt her.

It wasn’t anything she had the time or desire to dwell on, especially not in that moment, so she didn’t. 

(She never did.)

*

Patty was sprawled on the floor near the door, her luscious black curls a stark contrast to their cream rug. Her freckled, girlish cheeks reddened from wine and her mouth was arranged in what was a rare carefree grin. Kay, beside her, was animatedly retelling a story about a girl she had met at a party a few weeks ago. Bev had heard the particular tale going on three times, but Patty had been practically living at her boyfriend’s apartment lately, and the two clearly had some catching up to do.

She’s reminded, again, that she’s the third wheel in this friendship. That she’s only living there because they moved out of their college mandated on-campus housing ASAP and had needed a third roommate to share the off-campus rent costs.

The thought only increased Bev’s levels of irritation and she knew she had to get out of there, not wanting that frustration to pour out from her and seep into the walls of her home. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, do that to the other girls, who had _done nothing wrong, _she reprimanded herself.

Beverly cleared her throat, which neither of the other girls heard the first time. 

Wringing her hands, she spoke in a soft, shaking tone. “Guys, I’m gonna go to the library or something.”

Immediately, what she had wanted to avoid occurred all at once. Patty’s face fell into one of remorse. She had one of those faces, where everything she felt was just right there even if she never let anything on verbally. It unnerved Bev, for no other reason than she didn’t quite know what to do with the responsibility of knowing someone’s feelings at every given moment. 

And Kay? Kay launched into a string of apologies, which were sincere, but she was the sort of person to apologize until the other person relented, rather than until the other person was ready. Again, Bev finds it to be a responsibility and pressure sometimes too much to handle.

(Not that she had anything to even apologize for, Bev reminded herself.)

“I’m so, so sorry Bev! We can turn the music down!” She stood and approached Bev with a distraught face plastered on her pristine facial features, perfectly manicured eyebrows furrowing in concern, “Have you had dinner? You want me to make you something?”

Her tone was motherly, concerned. Not motherly as in anything at all like Bev’s actual mother, but… maternal.

A bubble of something viciously painful rose within her, making her eyes burn and palms sweat. As politely as possible, Bev insisted she was fine and declined their offers and their apologies, insisting (perhaps untruthfully, but she felt, at least politely) that her distraction was of her own doing and she probably just needed some air.

Ten minutes later found her on her way to the bus station, ready to make the journey back to campus from her apartment building, when she passed a cute coffee shop on the corner of the street, one she’d always been meaning to go into. Remembering Kay’s words, and that she actually hadn’t eaten that evening, she decided to give it a try as a space to work in. It couldn’t be any worse than home, at least. 

A little bell sounded as she crossed the threshold of the store, and immediately her senses were overwhelmed by the scent of rich, deep tones of coffee, and fresh baking. It was one of those small hipster cafes that had become increasingly popular among college students, with a sign on the door indicating live music events held weekly and a notice board full of petitions and roommate wanted postings. 

There was a small queue in front of the counter where a stocky, round-faced man was taking orders, clad in acid wash jeans and a clean button up covered in the dark maroon apron all the staff wore. Her gaze lingered on him, unseeing, as she stood in line. All her fears, every single negative thought she’d had about her work all day, all year, seemed to enter her thoughts right at that moment, and she felt a familiar tightening of her chest. She didn’t know what it meant or why it happened, but it happened more than she was willing to admit, and all she knew was that it was painful, and it made her feel foolish and helpless.

She hated feeling helpless.

Before she knew it, she was at the front of the queue, facing the coffee counter guy. His cheeks were rosey and eyes a deep brown. She thought, deliriously, that his eyes reminded her of coffee. Which was a patently ridiculous thought. 

Blinking rapidly, she gave a desperate attempt to clear her thoughts and noted his expectant look. It was clear he had said something that she’d completely missed.

Shaking her head and attempting to control her voice, and failing, she croaked out an apology, 

“Sorry, what did you say?”

He responds with a small, reassuring smile, “that’s okay, I was just asking what would you like to order?” And he said it in such an apologetic, shy tone, as if he had been the one to space out completely and hold her up at work. 

Her eyes grasped around for the menu and stared at it with a complete incapability of actually comprehending a single word of it. Her chest spasmed painfully and it was as if the walls were pulsing. Behind her, a throat cleared pointedly.

Coffee counter guy, Ben, his name-tag pinned to his apron helpfully supplied to her absent mind, shot a disapproving look behind her shoulder toward clearing-throat person, and in a soft tone, asked if she was okay.

Before she knew what was happening there was a painful bubble in her throat, the tell tale sign that she was going to cry and not a thing on this earth could stop it. 

Mortified, her eyes and face burning, she mumbled out an order for a black coffee and swiped her card before hurrying to a corner seat. 

With a painful tug she released her long red hair from its tight bun, shaking it around her shoulders and using it to shield her face from view. Her stomach twisted in knots and with a pang of memory she realised she really, really needed to eat something but probably couldn’t face going back to the counter.

The room felt too small and too warm but she couldn’t fathom leaving her seat so she just sat, breathing erratically as quiet tears ran down her cheeks and she stared unflinching at the wall in front of her, berating herself furiously. She was sure not to sniff her nose or use a tissue, or wipe at her eyes. 

She knew how to cry quietly, as if she wasn’t really even crying at all.

Still, if anyone looked at her face, they’d know, and there was nothing she could do about it. Shame curled through every inch of her bones, feeling weak and utterly stupid. 

Distantly she could hear her father’s voice in her mind, insisting his concern for her in that cold, implied tone of his. I worry about you, Bevvie.

She shuddered, exhausted, and, on top of it all, still facing down a full night of work ahead of her. 

A coffee was placed on her table, beside where her fists were clenched to the edges, knuckles white. It took everything in her not to flinch. 

Eventually she calms down, sipping the bitter, warm liquid and mind losing itself in her sketching, when her stomach growls loudly. A bright flush raises on her neck and she hunches her shoulders, arranging her hair, again, to hide herself. How many more ways could she possibly humiliate herself in this place? If she could, if she were strong enough, she would get up and leave. As it happened, her knees were wobbly and she still couldn’t face either being home or the trip to campus.

So there she stayed. 

*

Half an hour later, immersed in her work and anxiety and hunger far from her mind, a plate with a delicious smelling grilled sandwich slid gently next to her. Blinking rapidly, she stared at the man who had put it there, and back again at the food, confusion flooding her features.

“Sorry, uh, I didn’t order this?” She cleared her throat, voice soft from disuse.

The man, Ben, shot her a sheepish smile, scratching at the back of his neck and shrugging with one shoulder. 

“You looked hungry… you’ve been working over here a while. I figured you could use it. On the house.”

“You don’t need to do that… shit,” glancing around, she notices the chairs stacked on tables and the empty room around her. “I am so sorry, you’re trying to close up and here I am just wasting your time.” 

Ben shakes his head rapidly, dismissing her guilt.

“You’re fine, we’re still open for another half hour, we just usually don’t have anyone in here this late. Seriously, if you want it the sandwich is yours, and there’s no rush. I’ll let you know when I’m heading out.” His tone is patient and there’s a sparkle to his eyes that makes him seem amused by her. 

She doesn’t really know how that makes her feel.

“Well... thank you,” and with that he smiles and starts heading back toward the counter, “Ben.” She says, trying to convey her gratitude as sincerely as she knows how. 

He says nothing, just smiles and shrugs, and allows her the time to finish her work (and her sandwich, which he refuses payment for). 

That night, she falls to her bed without the paralysing fear that had been plaguing her for so long, and instead closes her eyes and thinks of the small act of kindness that made her night. Made her entire week, really. 

She rests.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this two years ago, the next few chapters are written but in need of editing. No idea of a post schedule, but if i don’t start posting now i never will. 
> 
> I just kinda wanted to write a love letter to Bev and Ben, okay
> 
> Also please know all of the self-judgement Beverly is expressing will be dealt with but you know, anxiety be like that
> 
> three cheers for Beverly having friends that are girls. Don’t worry, there’s more of them to come.


End file.
